


What It Means To Me

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3686643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’ve got more sleeveless shirts than there are days of summer.”</p>
<p>“Sometimes I change my shirt twice a day,” Mickey argued.</p>
<p>“And sometimes you wear the same shirt three days in a row.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	What It Means To Me

**Author's Note:**

> I jumped on the pointless fluff bandwagon.
> 
> This takes place a year or so after season 5.

“This place is turning into a pigsty again,” Ian observed as he handed Mickey a beer and joined him on the couch.

Mickey shoved a handful of cheetos into his mouth before replying. “I prefer to call it homey.”

“I prefer to call it hoarding.”

Mickey nipped playfully at Ian’s neck in response. Ian nudged Mickey’s arm with his own, pushing off and leaning away from his boyfriend’s teeth.

“I’m serious, Mick,” he scolded with a smile. “I’ve got two more days of freedom before school starts. Tomorrow I’m gonna take it upon myself to make this place at least mildly clean and kid-friendly.”

“It’s not even that bad!”

“There’s a broken lava lamp on a shelf over there, the silverware drawer is full of bottle caps, you can’t even see our bedroom floor- I’m assuming it’s still there underneath all the fucking clothes but I can’t be sure, you literally can’t even walk down the stairs to the basement because there’s so much shit-”

“Alright, alright, you’ve made your point,” Mickey groaned, cutting Ian off. “Do your thing, Mrs. Doubtfire. Just don’t get rid of anything unless you’re sure it’s junk.”

Ian scooched closer to him, sliding a hand comfortably between Mickey’s thighs. “I will not throw out anything of worth. Scouts honor.”

“Anything that _I_ would think’s of worth,” Mickey corrected.

Ian squeezed Mickey’s thigh and slid down low enough on the couch so that his head was at the perfect height to rest lazily against Mickey’s shoulder. “Whatever you say.”

*

When Mickey arrived home late the next evening he was greeted by the sight of an immaculate but empty living room. He walked into the equally clean and equally vacant kitchen to grab a beer before heading towards the noise coming from the bedroom.

He found Ian sitting on the floor of their room surrounded by mounds of clothes.

“Hey!” Ian greeted him excitedly.

“Hey.” Mickey bent down to kiss him before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

“That’s a fucking understatement. This place is even worse than I thought. Debbie and Liam were here earlier helping me. We got the living room, kitchen, and most of the basement done.”

Mickey cracked open his beer and took a sip. “You put a five year old to work?”

“Liam’s surprisingly good at throwing beer cans into a garbage bag. Which is where that one better go when you’re done.”

“Jesus, that’s all you do is nag,” Mickey teased. He bit his lip and took a breath before asking Ian a question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.  “You’ve been cleaning for like ten hours straight, man. Aren’t you tired?”

There was more to it; questions that were hidden beneath the surface, asking more than his words led on. But Ian understood.

“I’m not manic,” he reassured him. “Trust me. I’m just cleaning. Needed something to do. You can ask Debbie, she was with me all day.”

Mickey nodded and played with the tab on his beer can. “I believe you. Just wanted to make sure.”

“I know. But I’m good. You ready to help?”

“Hell no, man,” Mickey scoffed. “This was your little project.”

Ian held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, but you don’t get to bitch about what I choose to throw out.”

“That was not the deal.”

“That was before I realized how much shit you have.” Ian gestured dramatically at the slew of clothing surrounding him. “You’ve got more sleeveless shirts than there are days of summer.”

“Sometimes I change my shirt twice a day,” Mickey argued.

“And sometimes you wear the same shirt three days in a row.”

Mickey flipped Ian off as he took another drink of his beer, and Ian was about to throw a pair of jeans at him when he caught sight of a familiar sleeve poking out from beneath the mess. He grabbed it and pulled it to the surface, holding the ratty brown sweater before him.

“Mick, what’s this?”

“What?” Mickey replied innocently.

“I told you to throw this out after you ripped it jumping that fence.”

“It’s still wearable.”

Ian stuck in arm through the gaping tear on the back of the sweater, waving his hand wildly to make his point.

Mickey snatched it out of his hands. “It’s fine. Why do you want to get rid of all my shit? You got the cash to buy me a whole new wardrobe?”

“No, and I don’t need to. I never realized how many clothes you have. It’s insane. I’ve never seen you wear most of this shit.”

“Have you seen me wear this?” Mickey asked, holding up the brown sweater and gripping it tightly in his hand.

Ian rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“Then I guess we’re keepin’ it.”

Ian’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Fine. Didn’t know you got so emotionally attached to clothes.”

“What, you think you’re the only thing I’m emotionally attached to? You’re not that special.”

Ian grinned, relishing in Mickey’s fucked up version of a compliment. “Guess I shouldn’t ask you to choose between me and the shirt then, huh?”

“The shirt doesn’t give ultimatums so I think that tells you which way that’d go.”

Ian laughed. “Put it over there, loser. That’s the keep pile.”

Mickey eyed the pile of clothes Ian was pointing at. The pile that was about a quarter of the size of the other pile. “ _That’s_ the keep pile?”

“It’s for your own good. All the clothes in the junk pile are either ripped, blood-stained, or haven’t been worn since I’ve known you. Like this,” Ian said, picking up what was formerly a white t-shirt that had yellowed with age and had a mysterious purple stain running down the front. “This goes in the junk pile.”

Mickey eyed him cautiously but didn’t comment as Ian tossed it onto the growing heap.

“Junk, junk, junk.” Ian muttered as he threw more clothes to his left. He paused for a moment when his hands ran across a shirt he recognized; brown, sleeves cut off, an elephant head on the front.

He looked at Mickey knowingly and tossed it into the other pile. “Keep.”

A small smile crept onto Mickey’s face. He watched Ian intently as he sorted through more clothes, enjoying the silence for a moment before bringing up a question that had been nagging at the back of his mind all day.

“This you tryin’ not to think about school startin’ in a couple days?”

Ian rolled his eyes but didn’t comment.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I’m cleaning the house because it looks like a warzone and I don’t want to find Yev trapped under a mountain of CDs and magazines and bowling balls one day. You know I found three bowling balls so far in this house? Have you ever even _been_ bowling?”

“So you’re not worryin’ about school at all?” Mickey pressed, ignoring Ian’s question. They should probably hang onto those bowling balls though. You never know when you might need one.

Ian sighed, realizing that Mickey wasn’t going to let this one go. Mickey was good at that - getting Ian to talk when he didn’t want to, knowing when to push and when to back off. And Ian was getting better, too. He was slowly but surely learning how to open up, how to tell people how he was feeling and share his thoughts and concerns. He had never been one to complain or demand attention - middle child syndrome at its finest - but he was discovering that sometimes it was better to talk things out.

“I’m not Lip,” he admitted.

“Thank fuck for that.”

“School doesn’t come natural to me. It’s gonna be really fucking hard.” Ian’s eyes were on the floor, slightly embarrassed that he was worrying about something so petty. It sounded stupid now that he said it out loud, but the small bit of fear was still there.

“There’s a lot of people dumber than you in college.”

“Oh yeah?” Ian looked up at Mickey and smirked at his attempt to pacify him. “And you would know that how?”

Mickey locked eyes with Ian, holding his gaze to make sure Ian understood that he meant what he was saying. Sometimes he forgot that Ian didn’t see himself the way Mickey saw him. Ian didn’t see himself as intelligent and beautiful and perfect. He saw himself as broken and damaged and less than his siblings. He had gained a lot of ground in the past year, but parts of him still doubted himself. Mickey would make it his life’s mission to convince him otherwise if he had to.

“You’re smart, Ian. Not as smart as Lip, no. But that’s fine because being that kind of smart turns you into a fuckin’ tool. But you’re not stupid. And I already know you’re gonna bust your ass ‘cause that’s just how you are. So stop worrying. And stop throwing out all my shit.”

“That was a great speech, Mick. But I’m still throwing out all your shit.” Ian smiled and leaned in for a kiss, slipping his tongue just slightly between Mickey’s lips. His hand cupped Mickey’s face and his thumb rubbed a silent ‘thank you’ into his cheek.

Mickey pulled away and shook his head, feigning annoyance. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“I love you, too,” Ian told him, and Mickey couldn’t help but smile.

*

The next morning Mickey was cleaning up their breakfast dishes when he heard an intriguing “no way!” come from down the hall.

Curious and slightly afraid of what Ian could’ve found, Mickey trudged into his old bedroom. He found Ian on his hands and knees rummaging in the back of the closet.

“You find a secret passageway back there? If there’s dead bodies I had nothin’ to do with it, I swear.”

“Nope, no bodies,” Ian grunted as he backed out of the closet. “But I did find this.”

In his hands was Mickey’s security vest from his days at the Kash and Grab.

Mickey accepted the vest from Ian and grinned. “Shit, man, I forgot about this thing. Haven’t seen this in forever.”

“Go on, put it on,” Ian urged.

“Fuck you, I’m not gonna put it on.”

“Okay.” Ian stood up from his place on the floor and walked over to Mickey. He wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist, leaning in close and talking breathily into his ear. “How about you take all your clothes off, and then you put it on? And then we’ll go in the kitchen and open the fridge and we’ll pretend like we’re fucking in the freezer for old times’ sake?”

Mickey snorted. “Let’s go fuck by an open fridge? Is that your idea of dirty talk?”

He stiffened when Ian palmed him through his jeans.

“Got you hard, didn’t it?” Ian pointed out brazenly.

Mickey raised his eyebrows and ran his tongue along his lower lip, making a show of mulling the idea over.

“You’re so fucking lame,” he finally said as he stripped down. He grabbed the vest and followed Ian into the kitchen. For old times’ sake.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Shannon for encouraging my fluff writing and fixing my mistakes.
> 
> I'm on tumblr @ backstreet-gurl.


End file.
